


Burning Through To My Soul

by Elfbert



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-06
Updated: 2011-10-06
Packaged: 2017-10-24 09:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfbert/pseuds/Elfbert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on the kinkmeme. Lestrade is attacked with pepper spray.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning Through To My Soul

Lestrade walked as quietly as possible along the base of the wall, the crunch of the loose stones under his feet sounding very loud in the still, deserted alleyway.

'Quick, split up,' Sherlock had said – and he'd obeyed, like he always bloody did. But Sherlock had seemed certain that the man they were after was in the building, and there would definitely be a back way out. So here he was, creeping about, hoping Sally got his message and was on the way with some of the team. She'd no doubt be pissed off that he was once again hanging his hopes on Sherlock being right.

He peered around a corner, but there was no one in sight. He was pretty sure he'd meet John coming the other way quite soon – unless Sherlock did something typically ridiculous and flushed their prey out into the open.

Which, of course, being Sherlock, he would do. Before back up arrived. Why would Lestrade ever think any different?

A door in front of him swung open, and he grabbed the baton from the holster on his hip, snapping it out to full length.

A man appeared from the door, a bag slung on his back. Lestrade moved, hoping to close the distance between them before he was spotted.

"Stop right there, police!" he shouted, as he closed the gap, hoping John or Sherlock would hear and come running.

The man froze for a second, face a picture of shock, and Lestrade ran at him, baton rested on his shoulder, ready for action.

Lestrade didn't even see that the man was holding something. Until it hit him.

The pain was unbelievable. His eyes squeezed shut involuntarily, and felt like they would be burned out of his head. He immediately choked and gasped as the pain seemed to coat his mouth, closing his throat, gripping his chest. He staggered, blinded, doubling over and wiping his sleeve across his eyes. The pain somehow managed to get worse – the burning intensifying. He tried to open them, to prepare himself for any following attack, but he couldn't see anything, just feel the liquid dripping from his face, soaking into his jacket and shirt. Every breath just made it worse, and he stumbled, his hand finding the floor, the other one still clamped over his face, as if he could rip the pain out of his eyes. He tried to shout, but he couldn't catch his breath, every agonising intake of oxygen led to a spasm of coughing so hard he retched. He was gasping, just barely able to breath enough to stay alive, or so it seemed. For a moment he thought it must be acid, and he tried to call out for help, before it was too late, but he couldn't breath or make a sound beyond a choking, gagging noise.

Then something smashed into the side of his head and he fell, hard, against the wall. Another blow caught him in the stomach as he rolled over, disorientated.

"Stop, oi, leave him, and don't get it on you, for Christ's sake, fucking idiot," a voice called from nearby. The pain of the blows was nothing - it didn't even register as he gasped and panicked. He could feel his nose and eyes streaming, his lungs desperate for any air, but every tiny breath agony.

A final blow caught his face, and he rolled with it, unable to do anything else, having no idea where his attackers were or how many of them there could be.

Then, over the sound of his gurgling, gasping, breaths he thought he heard footsteps running away. He dragged his sleeve across his face again, trying to reach for the wall, to orientate himself, but his instinct was just to keep trying to wipe his eyes and face, and just concentrate on trying to get any precious oxygen that he could into his lungs. He tried to open his eyes, to see if they had really gone, but the pain made it unbearable, and even for the brief second he blinked them open, he couldn't see anything.

 

John glanced around the corner, and when he was sure the coast was clear, advanced again, close to the wall, adrenaline flowing in his veins. He trod carefully, every nerve on high alert.

He was worried about Sherlock - he'd headed straight into the building, and John had to fight his instinct to follow. Sherlock could easily become trapped or cornered inside, but John supposed if anyone could avoid such a thing, he could. Senses like a bat, that man.

A noise - a voice - made him stop and drop, crouching, listening. It might have been Lestrade, he thought, in which case he should move, should help. Lestrade wouldn't be shouting for no reason.

But there was nothing now - silence. He moved forward swiftly. It could just have been someone on a nearby street calling out. He wouldn't risk the other two for that. He continued his stealthy advance, peering around the corner which led him to the very back of the building, expecting to see Lestrade.

But the alleyway was empty, the long stretch, leading the entire length of the old factory was deserted. He frowned. Something must have held Lestrade up. Then he heard a rasping cough, echoing from the brickwork, harsh and strained. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, and continued on.

He was close to the sound when he finally saw a crumpled figure, on the ground behind a set of steps. And it took him only fractions of a second to identify Lestrade, coat muddy, face hidden, wracked with a fit of coughing.

"Jesus!" he ran forward, then shied away as the door swung open - but happily it was Sherlock who stood there, not an assailant.

Sherlock's gaze swept down to Lestrade's hunched form, and he bounded down the steps, grabbing John as he tried to reach the stricken man.

"No! Don't touch him - it's pepper spray, can't you sense it? You'll just contaminate yourself." Sherlock turned his attention to Lestrade, getting close, but keeping clear of him.

"Lestrade, it's Sherlock. What happened? Where did they go?"

John stared for a second, open mouthed, as the horrible gasping and coughing cycle continued. Paralysed by seeing his partner in so much pain, and noting that a sluggish trickle of blood was sliding down his cheek – and another from his nose, smeared over his cheek where he had obviously rubbed it. Crushing down the panic that welled up inside him as he realised Sherlock was right, and Lestrade was in no deadly danger.

"Sherlock! He needs help, not an interrogation!" he dropped to his knees, reaching out, but stopping before he touched Lestrade.

"Greg, it's okay, you're safe...I...just try to breath, you'll be fine."

Lestrade made a strangled noise, and John wasn't sure if it was in acknowledgement or pain.

"Shit," he said, under his breath, and dragged his jumper off, pushing it into Lestrade's hands. "Try to use that to wipe your face," he said, and even as he did so he felt a stinging burn as some liquid dripped from Lestrade's hair onto his hand. He couldn't imagine what it was like to have a face full of it. Lestrade had his face buried in the jumper, and seemed to be whimpering.

"We need to..." John started, when a shout made him twist around. He almost thanked God when he saw Sally Donovan running towards them. "Donovan, where's your car? Gre...Lestrade's been pepper sprayed."

Donovan skidded to a halt by them and glanced down at Lestrade. "Shit. Don't touch him - we need water and detergent - baby shampoo, for his eyes. Fucking hell. Sir? Sir, can you hear me? Take off your coat, Sir, and we'll get you to the car. Don't rub your face – don't touch your eyes. It'll make it worse."

John stared, wishing he hadn't handed over the jumper – wishing he knew what to do.

 

Lestrade felt completely alone and disorientated, not knowing what to do except stay were he was, praying for the pain to stop. He'd never felt anything like it - he wanted to rip his eyes out of his head. Then he heard John's voice nearby, and he wanted to respond, but it was as if his throat had closed up, and all he could do was cough and gag. Sherlock was there too, but even if Lestrade had had an answer to his questions, he wouldn't have been able to voice it.

He felt the familiar wool of John's jumper in his hands, and did as he was told, wiping across his face, trying to rid himself of the oily, clinging, burning substance. It seemed to ignite whole new levels of pain, though. Then he heard Sally, and he cursed himself for forgetting the basic training – don't touch your face, don't rub your eyes. Easy to nod to that in a classroom, not so easy when it felt as if your face was being eaten away at, and you were certain you'd been blinded for life. When she ordered him to remove his coat he did his best, fumbling but managing to pull his arms from the sleeves, all the time gasping in new breaths of fire, deep inside his lungs.

 

John laid a hand on Lestrade's back, where the fabric of his shirt was clean and dry. "Greg, I can't help you much, yet, but I'm right here, if we walk to the car I'll guide you. We need to clean you up, get the spray off you, okay?"

Lestrade nodded, wheezing as he managed to stagger to his feet, John's hand never leaving his back.

"Okay, turn around, a hundred and eighty degrees, then we'll walk, right? Good, now just walk forward, there's nothing to trip you, just walk slowly. I'm right here," John kept up the steady reassurances, glancing at Sherlock, who was frowning and trying to lean in to examine Lestrade.

"Get out of the way, Sherlock," he snapped.

Sherlock made a dissatisfied noise and turned. "I shall track them. Donovan, I'll contact you if I find them, as Lestrade is out of commission for the time being."

The look Sally gave him would have turned a lesser man into a pillar of salt, John was sure. "You two –follow him. Don't lose him," she said, gesturing to the two DCs she had with her, never breaking eye contact with Sherlock.

"Fuck," Lestrade finally managed to choke out, in between coughs.

"It's okay, you'll be okay now," John reassured, although he felt completely useless, unable to do anything about the obviously excruciating pain Lestrade was in.

He opened the car door and did his best to guide Lestrade in the right direction. "The cars right here, climb in - mind your head, just take your time," he said, the monologue as much to reassure himself as Lestrade.

It hurt him to listen to the choking sobs of pain, and not take Lestrade in his arms and hold him tight. He rubbed gentle circles between Lestrade's shoulder blades, feeling the shuddering, panting breaths.

"Get us to Baker Street," he said to Sally. "And when were there, run to Tesco's and get the shampoo or whatever else we need, while I start getting him cleaned up."

Sally nodded. "Here – pour this in his eyes, if you can." She passed back a small bottle of water. "Not ideal, but all we've got. Don't worry about the car, doesn't matter if it gets wet." Then she gunned the engine and put her foot down.

"Rest your head back," John said, wishing he could reach out and touch Lestrade's skin – reassure him. "I'm going to pour water over your eyes. I know it's hard, but try to blink, okay?"

"Yeah," Lestrade managed, hoarse and breathless, as he rested his head on the back of the seat.

It was difficult, in the moving vehicle, but John managed to pour the trickle of water across Lestrade's eyes, trying to ignore the solid clenched muscles of Lestrade's jaw, or the way his fists were gripping the edge of the seat – knuckles white. He tried to ignore the growing pink stains as the water washed the blood from Lestrade's face down onto his shirt. He could only imagine that the spray in the wounds would feel like fire.

It didn't take long to get to the flat, with Sally ignoring all the indignant motorists she left in her wake, and skidding to a halt by the front door.

"We're here," John said to Lestrade, leaning over him and opening the door, watching as liquid-splattered hands groped for the doorframe for balance.

"Jesus."

It was barely a word, said through gritted teeth, and John could see Lestrade's eyes were still tight shut, streaming with tears.

"Blink, Sir." Sally ordered. "You need to blink, remember? Try to make your eyes water more."

John took Lestrade's upper arm, careful to avoid the soaked fabric. "Nearly there. Sally, go and get whatever you think we need to clean him up."

John carefully guided Lestrade, watching as he dragged fingertips along the wall, feeling his way through the familiar building.

"You're doing really well – you'll be fine, you'll be okay," he murmured.

"Fucking…" Lestrade didn't finish, but John could imagine what was running through his head.

"Now into the kitchen – and sit."

As soon as Lestrade had found a chair John grabbed the washing up gloves from the sink, for lack of anything better.

"I'm going to take your shirt off – right? It's soaked. Just stay still, don't move."

He wrenched at the fabric, ripping half the buttons off, and pulled the shirttails out from Lestrade's waistband. He grabbed the tea towel and ran it under the tap, then folded it.

"I'm going to lay this over your eyes – it's cold and wet, just water, nothing else. Don't touch it," he ordered.

Lestrade groaned, tipping his head back and still struggling for breath.

John carefully sat the cold cloth over Lestrade's eyes, then turned, peeling off the gloves very carefully and heading for his laptop. A very quick Google showed Sally had been correct. Baby Shampoo was ideal for the job – but lots of websites also mentioned milk.

John headed for the fridge, and prayed that for once they had some in. He made a triumphant noise as he discovered an almost-full four pinter.

"Sit tight," he said, grabbing more tea towels from the drawer. "Is it getting any better?"

Lestrade dragged in two more breaths before he felt like he could risk speaking.

"'S…a bit," he answered, his throat feeling raw. He could feel his breathing was calming – mainly because he knew he was safe. It still felt as if his lungs were on fire, but finally it seemed as if death wouldn't be the only release from the pain.

"I'm going to put another cold towel on you – it's soaked in milk, it should make the pain a bit better. Just keep breathing, concentrate on trying to relax your muscles.

John watched as the milk ran in translucent trails down Lestrade's chest, through the hair, scrambling through stubble on Lestrade's jaw line, dripping down his neck.

He picked up a dry towel and gently wiped away the dribbles. "Sally will be back in just a minute, then we'll really get you cleaned up, okay?"

"'Kay," Lestrade grunted.

"Here, try and drink this – sip it. It's just milk. I don't know if it'll help, but…"

John guided the glass to Lestrade's lips, waiting as Lestrade's fingers ghosted over his own, tipping the glass back gently. Lestrade managed a few sips before pushing it away.

The door was closed hard downstairs, and John quickly put the glass down and headed for the door, nodding a greeting to Sally.

"I Googled it – I've used milk, so far. It says not to rub the skin but…well, it's sort of too late. What should we do now?"

"Get a bowl of clean water – two, in fact," Sally ordered, then turned to Lestrade. "All right, Sir? Now, you know this is going to hurt a bit, at first, but it'll clean the oil off you, okay?"

"Yeah, I know, Sal," Lestrade answered.

"So it's best if you do it first – wash your hands, thoroughly, and then do your face."

 

It took about twenty minutes of repeated washes, the shampoo gently cleansing away the oils, John repeatedly changing the water for fresh, murmuring assurances.

And then, to his intense relief, Lestrade blinked his eyes open and actually looked at him. He smiled, puling up a chair and reaching out to gently hold Lestrade's head still.

"You can see? No visual disturbances?" he asked.

"Bit blurry. That's all," Lestrade answered, blinking a few times, trying to clear his vision.

"Good. That's probably to be expected." John took a closer look at Lestrade's red, bloodshot eyes, but was satisfied it was a symptom of both the initial pepper spray, and then the repeated washing. He looked up at Sally, who had moved away some minutes ago to speak to someone on the 'phone. She flashed him a smile and continued her conversation.

"And the rest of you? Your breathing's settled. Still a bit wheezy, though. I'll need to keep an eye on you. I think the inflammation should go down now, over the next hour or so. The cuts are clean – as you'd expect after all that. I don't think there's any serious injury. No need for stitches."

Lestrade nodded, reaching to touch his face, but stopped by John gently taking his hand. "Try not to."

Sally finished her phone call and rejoined them, looking at Lestrade, assessing him. "Need some pictures," she said, pressing a few buttons on her mobile. "Try to look your worst."

She snapped the pictures quickly, close ups of his eyes, then wider pictures of his entire face. "Not quite as good as the FME would do, but I think they're good enough, if it comes to trial."

Lestrade nodded, slumping back in his chair, exhausted and some of his skin still alive with a burning itch.

"I need to get going, find out what the Freak's been up to," Sally said. "Call me, tonight, tomorrow, whenever you want an update."

Lestrade nodded again. "Cheers, Sal."

 

Once the door had closed behind her John pulled Lestrade up to standing. "Come on, I think you need some rest. You look shattered."

Lestrade nodded, and allowed himself to be led into the bedroom, the rest of his clothes stripped off him, and to be settled into the bed, duvet pulled up around him, John by his side, still fully clothed, holding him gently.

"Now try to ignore it, and go to sleep. When you wake up I'm sure it'll be a lot better," John said softly.

Lestrade closed his still-gritty eyes and threw an arm over John's hips. He felt the light touch of fingers through his hair, soothing and safe.

John picked up the book he'd been reading and found his place, his left hand never stopping its slow progress, stroking Lestrade's hair over and over as he felt the arm across him grow heavy, and the breathing get deeper.

 

~Fin


End file.
